


A Small Existence

by The_Queer_Dungeoneer



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale too let's be real, HMCWTIYS, I may make this into something longer down the road... but that's life permitting, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Cottage in the South Downs, Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), remembering trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29217888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Queer_Dungeoneer/pseuds/The_Queer_Dungeoneer
Summary: While the rest of humanity pottered about their lives after the inexplicable averting of Armageddon, there were many things out of place. Namely, an Angel and a Demon attempting to carve out a small existence in a small cottage in a small corner of the South Downs.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	A Small Existence

**Author's Note:**

> This is for @Usedtobehmc's WTIYS contest! Hope you enjoy! <3
> 
> Lots of love,  
> -TQD

While the rest of humanity pottered about their lives after the inexplicable averting of Armageddon, there were many things out of place. Namely, an Angel and a Demon attempting to carve out a small existence in a small cottage in a small corner of the South Downs. You see, most people did not remember Armageddon had happened in the first place. Many people feel their world is ending all the time. That usually amounts to the loss of some second-rate accounting job or the bad decision to get bangs when you don’t have the head shape for it, or a date, who wasn’t nearly as attractive as his dating profile would lead you to believe, not showing up for dinner. The world ends over a lot of things. To humanity, this particular world-ending was not special.

But for Aziraphale and Crowley it had been very real and very terrifying. Do you know how hard it is to terrify two supernatural beings? Angels are, supposedly, backed by the almighty power of God. They have the best sidekick ever, granted they stay on her good side. There are few threats that ruffle their feathers at all. Demons, on the other hand, face horror daily. Death is a next-door neighbor. What you might see as the most horrid and awful thing you have ever experienced in your life is just a regular old Tuesday for a Demon. Be that as it may, the experience had shaken Aziraphale and Crowley to the core. And while the rest of the world could forget what had happened, that fear stayed with them.

Sure, there was a sense of relief in the immediate aftermath. A communal sigh of relief as they rode the bus home. A reassuring squeeze of the hand as eyes closed and sleep crept in for the first time in millennia. Even that, though, was underlined with the unsettling feeling that something was coming. Something that had no name and no shape yet. Something only vaguely hinted at in the tattered hardback copy of a prophecy book by a witch long dead who knew nothing of celestial bureaucracy and could only sort-of-kind-of explain the face of an evil she did not know.

_“’Choose you faces wisely…’ well good thing we got the hint I suppose.” Crowley thought. He had run through several incoming unpleasantries as he stared at the blank alabaster walls of his holding cell. Heaven though it may be, they were the experts at putting the fear of God into someone. That someone, unfortunately, was him._

_His trip here had been a far cry from the sleek interior of the Bentley. The sack over his head meant he was entirely disoriented, and it was tightened so that it felt constricting even though he lacked the need to breathe. He was then deposited here unceremoniously. He had been dropped so hard that his – well, Aziraphale’s – corporation would likely have a bruised tailbone._

_“Keep the pain for him if I could.” He mused. It was only then he took the liberty to think about where Aziraphale could be right now. Demon or not, there were parts of the pre-trial rituals even he was not privy to. He blanched at the thought. After this was all over, Someone-willing they survived, anyone who laid a finger on his Angel would have that finger unceremoniously removed._

Dinner at the cottage always seemed to fall at exactly seven o’clock in the evening. It was a silly bit of structure neither of them would admit they needed in the absence of otherworldly assignments. The rest of the days were spent in quiet contemplation. Crowley would tend to his garden – still the lushest garden in all of England – and Aziraphale would read in his chair by the window. Occasionally Crowley would refresh his tea or stop to ask him about his book. Aziraphale would inquire about the plants and the day would go on. Though they never repeated questions, it all seemed somewhat rehearsed. Following their return to Earth, neither of them had been able to muster up the courage and reach out. It was that same overarching fear. The unspoken threat that if they dared to move, even a little, it would all come crashing down. And so, they continued this peaceful, yet tenuous, coexistence.

_The waiting between "questionings" was the worst part. Angels did not sleep, and, therefore, did not need shifts in daylight with which to track time. Crowley had very much liked sleeping. Even liked dreaming when you got right down to it. Often his dreams involved soft hands, white feathers, discarded tartan... things of the celestial nature. Nothing he'd come to find in his 6,000 years. Sure, you brushed shoulders in the crowded corridors of Hell, but not even God could help the poor sod that asked Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, for a cuddle._

_He didn't know how long he had been here, or how many times he'd been dragged out for interrogation. Even if he wanted to sleep, even if he so desperately tried to doze off and pass the time, they would not let him. They truly had eyes everywhere. He would always be shaken awake by blasts of angelic trumpeting right as his head hit his chest. Eventually, he could even drown that out... that's when the electric shocks started coming through the floor._

Dinner tonight, like every night before, had been quiet, After 6.000 years it's hard to make small talk. It's even more difficult when there's an elephant in the room and it's sitting on top of the spaghetti. 

"Marigolds taking to their new plot then?" Aziraphale asked, both accepting this lame attempt and conversation and grasping desperately at straws to stay afloat.

"Oh yeah, loving it on that side of the garden. Couldn't be happier." Crowley sighed.

 _"Please, Angel, my hand is so close to yours. Please grab it before I drown."_ He didn't say.

"Well, this was simply scrumptious. Thank you for the oregano dear. You simply can't beat homegrown herbs."

"Course Angel, thanks for cooking." The demon offered a small smile, picking up their plates and taking them to the sink. The cottage had a dishwasher, but with only two people's worth of work at any given time, it seemed foolish to use it. Sure, Crowley could have miracled them clean, but the physical task gave him something to focus on between the suffocating dread of his mind and the anxiety-riddled air between the two of them.

_He didn't need the sleep, but the constant painful interruptions left him more disoriented and exhausted than he had ever known possible. Just when he thought he'd reached a limit, that's when they would come for him. Always two angels, always wearing all white, always picking him up by the shoulders with unsettling strength. Always dragging him through an indecipherable maze of corridors to a small white room with a small white chair. He knew that even if he could run, he'd never find a way out. That's why they'd designed it this way. He'd be tied by the wrists and ankles to the chair and then they'd leave him._

_He didn't know how long he'd be alone, but it was always the same amount of time - from what he'd been about to count, approximately ten minutes - and then Gabriel would come in. Or sometimes Michael. If they were feeling especially cruel it would be Uriel. The questions were always the same. "How long did you know about the antichrist's location?" "How long have you been working with the Demon Crowley?" "Did you defy your mother, the almighty God knowingly, or were you lead astray by the temptations of Hell?" Yadda, yadda, yadda. Honestly, none of his answers were ever satisfactory. And he was punished each time. You see, Heaven has appearances to keep up, so they can't exactly go around removing fingernails. Much too obvious, even in this sector. But that means nothing for toenails and, if he really pissed them off, teeth._

He didn't realize he had shattered the plate in his hand until Aziraphale called him out of his trance. His hand was bleeding. 

"Crowley, dear boy, are you quite alright?" The angel asked, concern lacing his tone as he moved towards the sink.

"Ngk. What? Oh. Oh, yeah. M' fine Angel. Just lost the old train of thought a bit."

"Darling, you're bleeding, please let me see." Aziraphale shushed calmly, reaching for the demon's hand.

Crowley offered it forward, expecting a quick healing miracle and then to be done with it. He hadn't expected the angel to touch him. Not just touch him, _delicately_ touch him. Like he cared. To cradle his injured hand like he didn't want to hurt him. Crowley didn't know what to do, so he froze.

Aziraphale inspected the injury for any broken shards of ceramic, and then, satisfied with his assessment, ran his finger over Crowley's injured palm and left no trace of the marred skin before.

As soon as the skin was healed, Crowley pulled his arm back. It was so quick you would have thought Aziraphale's touch burned him. That was the problem though, it was the opposite. He had been so tender, so gentle. Feeling a caring - dare he say, _loving_ \- touch had nearly broken the dam. Crowley didn't know what would happen if the walls broke, but he didn't want to stick around and find out. Air. He needed air.

"Gonna go for a walk. See you in a bit. Thanks for the fix." He spat out robotically before marching straight out the door and down the path and onto the road leaving a staggered and confused Aziraphale standing dumbfounded in the kitchen.

_There was never any blood when he returned to his cell. He would always be miraculously put back together by the time he settled back into the blindingly white corner of the room. The room that always seemed to be creeping in on him. Getting smaller and smaller. The walls were closing in on him and he couldn't breathe. All he could see was white. He screwed his eyes shut._

_"White, white, white. What's white? Aziraphale. His hair is white. Okay, stick with that. His hair is white, and so is his favorite mug. The silly one with the angel wings. That's white. And the marshmallows in his hot cocoa are white. Okay, yes, this is good. Stick with this, stick with Aziraphale." Crowley focused harder than he had ever focused on anything. He could do this for his angel that's what was pulling him through the torment. Every wound inflicted was one that would not come to Aziraphale. Yes. Good. Aziraphale. Aziraphale._

Aziraphale. How long had he been standing there? 

Crowley looked around. He didn't remember what direction he'd walked when he left the cottage. Shouldn't Aziraphale still be standing in the kitchen? But, no, he was here, shaking his shoulders to snap him out of something. And Crowley was crying. He reached a hand up to confirm that the tears were, indeed, coming from his own eyes. When had that started?

"Crowley, my love, what ever is the matter?" Aziraphale questioned, frantic concern filling his blue eyes. How long had he been talking? Crowley hadn't the foggiest.

 _My love._ That did it. Crowley broke.

It was like a tidal wave of pent up anxiety and fear washed over him. He would have fallen to his knees if the angel's sturdy arms hadn't kept him afloat. He was wracked with painful sobs that took even the breath he didn't need away. He couldn't hear, he couldn't see. He just dissolved. Only a small voice made its way into the maelstrom the demon had become.

"Crowley, can I lift you, dear?"

The only signal he could give was grasping at a beige corduroy waistcoat in desperation. Aziraphale was the only thing keeping him from crumbling to pieces. He held on so tightly that he was scared if he let go he would disappear into the cement. Thankfully, the angel got the message because soon there was a strong arm beneath his knees and another behind his back carrying him bridal-style in some unknown direction. All he knew was to cling to his lifeline. _Aziraphale. Aziraphale. Aziraphale._

He didn't hear the door to the cottage open. He didn't realize he'd stopped sobbing. He just stayed there, catatonic, face pressed into Aziraphale's chest as he felt them lower down onto the sofa. 

"Dear boy, you're freezing, can I get you a blanket?"

 _No. No, please. Don't leave me. Not even for a second._ He couldn't say it. But Aziraphale could feel it. And without a word he was surrounded by fleece on all sides, but, more importantly, he was surrounded by his angel. 

They sat like that for a long time. Aziraphale knew not to change anything. He just stayed a strong sentinel, surrounding Crowley in his presence. Nothing would touch him, not again. Not tonight. Not ever. Soon, though, the silence got to Crowley. It was too quiet. He could start to think. Let his mind wander back to the white spaces. He started hyperventilating.

"Darling, what is it? What can I do? Just tell me." Aziraphale pleaded, sensing his Demon's growing unease.

"Silence. Bad. Too quiet. Talk, please. Say anything."

Aziraphale floundered for a moment. He searched the room for something, anything at all to ease Crowley, and then he saw it, his novel on the side table. Perfect.

"May I read to you, my love?"

There was no sound. Just a small nod he could feel against his chest. And so, calmly, with Crowley pressed snuggly to him, he picked up the book and began to read. Eventually, he the panicked breathing evened out. Crowley had fallen asleep. Still, he kept reading, letting the dulcet tones of his voice wash over the Demon's troubled dreams. He wouldn't move. He would stay there and keep reading to Crowley, his love, his darling Demon, forever if he wanted it. He could sleep as long as he needed. Aziraphale would never leave him. No matter what.

While the rest of humanity pottered about their lives after the inexplicable averting of Armageddon, there were some things that had finally found their place. Namely, an angel and a demon, holding each other tightly on a small couch, in their small cottage, in a small corner of the South Downs. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was a great stretch for my writing brain! Thank you to @Usedtobehmc on Instagram for posting the amazing inspiration art. I hope you all enjoyed some good ineffable husband cuddling. I think we all need that every once in a while... 
> 
> Follow me on IG: @The_Queer_Dungeoneer  
> Follow me on Tumblr: @the-queer-dungeoneer


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